


The Cunning Work of Giants

by Kerowyn6



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Austin Grey Continues to Be the Worst, Body Modification, Cybernetics, Gen, How many podcast references can you spot, Sci-Fi AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6
Summary: Philippa flicked to the bottom of the article. “It doesn’t say what he stole.”“I don’t suppose it matters,” said Catherine, and the next day the war broke out.





	1. The Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ap_trash_compactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/gifts).



> ScotSwap 2018! Written for Rinna's amazing prompt: "future-scifi, Francis' quest to improve himself to the utmost involves a lot of illegal cybernetic body modification." I was over the moon with this AU, however because I got ambitious and planned out a story that is probably going to be close on 8k words, I can't get the fic done by the deadline. Thus this will be in three parts, and the next one will be up by July 12th at the latest!  
> I'm going to add tags once I post the next chapter, but I'm pretty sure this is gonna need warnings for body horror at the very least.  
> The main title and chapter titles are from one of my favorite poems, Anglo-Saxon Maxims II. Look it up. It's beautiful.  
> Thank you so much, Rinna! I'm sorry I couldn't finish the whole thing. I've gotten a little carried away with it.

When Philippa first met Francis Crawford, a very long time ago indeed, he was still human.  
  
Part of that special circle of her parents’ acquaintances whom she heard mentioned sporadically over the years, he was for her a kind of ghost, formed of muttered phrases, a name in an address log, a sigh of consternation. Philippa did not, in her teenage years, spend much time on the news logs. If she had, she would have known in an instant his face, barely older than hers, seen it tucked on the side bar of every news log from Andromeda to the Outer Rim. “Francis Crawford,” they said, “originally from Culter in the Rim: under congressional survey for treason.” Or: “Crawford, a native of the Outer Rim, is under investigation by the Alban government for the sale of classified documents to central Andromeda.” Or sometimes, on the more sensationalist logs: “Francis Crawford: innocent pariah or criminal mastermind?” (It would be a good decade before the logs referred to him solely as Lymond, by which time everyone had decided on the answer to that question.)

But she hadn’t paid close enough attention, so when she met him at a reception he was just one of the names that Gideon and Kate worried over but never extrapolated on.

There was an antique piano in the corner of the hall, something narrow and made of gilded metal, and it did not take Philippa long into the dry political affair to make her way past the food-laden tables, past the smiling people with their flat eyes, over to the corner where the music was coming from. At the piano stool sat a young man of uncertain age, his blond hair cropped just past his ears, his startling blue eyes fixed with a vacant gaze on the sheet music in front of him.

She waited for the piece to finish, and as the last melancholy notes faded into the murmur of the guests, she stepped forward and fixed him with a bright smile.

“That was lovely,” she said, as his eyes flicked up to her. “It’s so rare we have a guest who can play. I’m Philippa Somerville, what’s your name?”

He stared at her for several seconds with a peculiar expression on his face. “Francis Crawford,” he said, with the air of a man delivering a threat, “and I think perhaps you should leave.”

“Nonsense,” said Philippa brusquely, “I live here. Where would I leave to?”

But that was all the conversation she had with him before the political speeches started. It would be another two years before she saw him again.

She heard of him first. A university education was something Philippa had looked forward to for many years: the libraries, the classes, the friends to be made. Towering over Halcyon City, Argos University offered the best education the galaxy could offer. Philippa loved it, loved everything about it. The classes were brilliant, the city life enchanting, her roommate captivating. Catherine hailed from the Gallian system, daughter of an activist and a government official: Philippa felt a kinship with her at once. At night, they would stay up watching the feeds, reading books, sharing snippets of their respective schoolwork. Philippa would turn to Catherine with an amusing anecdote from her lightspeed engineering course; Catherine would respond with some obscure fact from galactic history; Philippa would lean over and doodle on Catherine’s notes; Catherine would shove her off, laughing, and scan the news logs for anything of interest.

“Brahma seems to be having a revolution,” she might remark, with a secret little smile.

Or: “Oh, god, a Goddard ship got its navigator disconnected and went off the grid. That’s terrible.”

Or: “Look, the queen of Alba is getting married. I can’t believe they still have a queen.”

Or: “Good grief, Francis Crawford is a wanted fugitive. Again.”

Philippa blinked, something tickling her mind. “What?”

“Is there anyone who doesn’t want him dead at this point?” Catherine said, chuckling slightly. “Now it’s both the Alban and Anglian governments. Can’t be long before Gallia joins the hunt.”

“Hold up,” said Philippa, scanning her mind for memory of who exactly Francis Crawford was and what he had done. He hadn’t been news since she had left for college, which was the first time she paid any attention to the feeds. “Who is he again?”

“Don’t you remember?” said Catherine, passing her the screen. “The Albans thought he’d sold them out to central Andromeda, oh, maybe five years back. So he stayed in Anglia on asylum before dropping off the grid. It was a pretty big deal. I guess he’s back now.”

Philippa knew the face that stared up at her from the screen, although she couldn’t place where she knew it from. “Hm,” she said noncommitedly, scrolling down through the report. “This says he stole tech from AES labs? How would you even do that?”

“What’s wrong with the AES labs?” asked Catherine, who lived in history books and wouldn’t know a rotator lock if it hit her in the face.

“I mean,” said Philippa, gesticulating vainly, “they’re impenetrable. The actual security system is probably worth just as much as the weapons inside. Working there is an engineer’s dream, except for the secrecy and how they tell your family you’ve died. It’s a black box.” She flicked to the bottom of the article. “It doesn’t say what he stole.”

“I don’t suppose it matters,” said Catherine, and the next day the war broke out.

The first they heard of it was from the early morning feeds. Newscasters, dressed in black and grey, read out solemn lists of names. There had been a targeted strike, all across central Andromeda: politicians, ambassadors, scientists, engineers. It was assassins from the Milky Way, they said, all the way from home, the Solar government reaching out its tentacles to suck its wayward child back in. Sol had no comment. The Magellans, ever-cautious, had no comment. The Sagittarians too were silent.

Then, slowly, news of the fighting in the Outer Rim began to trickle in. Guerilla fighters from Outer Andromeda blew up a Magellan satellite embassy, and a Centaurian-run prison planet in a far tendril of the galaxy suffered from a brief yet fatal attack of guards being brutally murdered. Ships somewhere near the Great Attractor fired at each other, and no one seemed to know which governments they were from.

As it was winter break, Phillippa Somerville went home to visit her parents.

She was woken one night, suddenly and subtly, by the sound of piano music in the hall. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, horror coursing through her veins. There wasn’t-- should not have been-- anyone else in the house besides her parents, neither of whom had played piano in years.

She glanced around her room. There was her old desk, with papers scattered across it. A small shelf, stacked with file drives. Her childhood violin, tucked in one corner. And nothing else.

The violin caught her eye. It was vintage, almost a hundred years old, with embedded strings and a smooth steel neck. It weighed probably twenty pounds. It would do.

Her hand around the neck of the violin, she snuck out of her room and along the hallway. At the mouth of the stairwell, she paused. Logic was creeping steadily past her fear, so she tapped the screen on the back of her hand and pulled up a voice recorder. It was the best she could do.

The scene that met her as she tip-toed down the stairs was disturbing in its normalcy. The hall stood in its usual silent austerity: the wood-panelled walls were dark, the tiled floors empty, the only light emanating from a tiny sheet music lamp tucked on one end of the piano. Sitting in front of it, his blond hair glittering in the quiet, sharp light, was a man Philippa knew distinctly to be Francis Crawford. In a flash, she had a vision of the same scene, several years ago, and she remembered then their brief conversation at a reception.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, her violin clutched in her hand. “There are guest bedrooms, you know,” she said in a voice that to her sounded very small. The robotic playing did not cease. “You aren’t required to sleep in the hall.”

Calmly, with an irritating void of ceremony, he finished the piece. One elegant hand tapped white-painted nails along the edge of the music stand. “The little daughter,” he said, like a judge announcing a verdict, “You’re not supposed to be here. Where are your parents?”

“Out,” said Philippa stoutly.

“That’s a pretty lie. I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from screaming, by the way. Someone might hear, and then I’d have to make an example of you. It could get messy.” He stood, stepping out from behind the piano, and walked slowly towards her. There was something unsettling about his gait.

A tremor went through her, and she squeezed the neck of her violin for reassurance. “If you’re here for a robbery,” she said, “I won’t let you take anything. Besides, I don’t see why you had to threaten me.”

His eyes, cold and blue, stared at her from under heavy lids. “Haven’t you heard? I don’t do anything for a reason. Would you call your father, please?”

“No,” Philippa said, “and if you take one step further I shall hit you with this.” She hefted her violin threateningly.

He blinked, and for a second looked like a person. “Is that an Aurinko? Put it down. I don’t have time to waste, and there’s no point in frivolous immaturity.”

“You didn’t have to drop by our house,” said Philippa, “and no one’s stopping you from leaving if you’re so busy.”

“Please don’t be childish,” he said. “Fetch your father, dear Philippa. We have things to discuss.”

“Are you going to hurt him?”

“I might.” His expression didn’t change. “If he’s particularly obstinate. But if you don’t go get him I shall blow up your entire house. I’m good at blowing people up, you might recall.”

(“I remember when it came out he killed his sister,” Catherine had said, after the outbreak of the war. “Put her on a private transport loaded with explosives and pressed the button. I think that was when he was about seventeen. No one cared much, to be honest.”)

So Philippa did. She turned her back on the strange, evil man with the unsettling gait, walked calmly up the stairs, woke her father and mother, and explained to them rationally that there was a monster in the house to talk to them, and would they please follow her downstairs?

And then she stood, shaking with anger and silent tears, as her father and mother sat down with the piano player and had a perfectly civil conversation in which no one found out anything anyone wanted to know.

“This is futile,” said Crawford eventually, and stood. Kate and Gideon watched him with anxious eyes. “I’d like to ask your daughter a few questions.”

“I won’t tell you anything,” said Philippa, who by now had dried her tears. “Frankly, I think you’re a hideous waste of atoms which could be used to make something better, like a toad.”

Francis Crawford looked dismayed, in a mechanical sort of way, and cruel, in a much more human one. “That’s fine,” he said, “I thought that might be the case.” And from within his grey silk jacket he pulled a thin metal rod. “I heard you’re studying engineering, Philippa. Do you know what this is?”

She didn’t. “Of course I do. But it won’t make me talk.”

“Philippa, dear,” said Kate, in a strained sort of voice. “I think you should just tell him what he wants.”

“You’ll be alright,” Gideon agreed. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“See?” Crawford smiled in a manner that was far from reassuring. “Your parents are looking out for your health. I only have a couple questions. Do you know a woman named Margaret Lennox?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, Philippa scanned her parents’ worried faces. They gave nothing away, so she decided on the truth. “No.”

“Thank you, Philippa,” said Crawford. “Just one more. Has your father ever mentioned to you anything regarding a deal with the Anglian government?”

“No,” said Philippa, honestly.

Swiftly, Crawford pocketed the device. Philippa saw her parents relax slightly.

“Thank you, Philippa,” he said, as he walked toward the door. “I hope you enjoy your life.”

And he was gone.

Philippa went back to school, and she studied, and she spent time with Catherine, and she told no one of her rendez-vous with a wanted man.


	2. The Wild Hawk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So why are you telling me this now?” asked Philippa.  
> “Because,” said Will, all the lights of Hell in his eyes, “He wants me to do one last mission. With added robbery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waddup, peeps, this took way longer than it should. Sorry, Rinna. Also, this is going to be at least 10k words. Oops.

Philippa was hired by the Central Andromeda Space Station straight from her graduation ceremony, and left terra firma post haste with only a brief pause to bid farewell to her many college acquaintances, and a slightly longer pause to say goodbye to Catherine.  
  
“You’ve got to call me,” said Catherine, her dark almond eyes damp. “I really don’t think I’ve ever had as good a friend as you. Philippa, I’m going to miss you so much.”  
  
“I’ll call you,” said Philippa, and resolved that she would. “Every week. And we can write each other messages. I want to know everything about your studies.”  
  
“Give me a hug,” Catherine said, and pulled Philippa in. They held each other for what seemed like an hour.  
  
“Don’t worry, Cat,” said Philippa, “I’ll keep in touch.”  
  
And she did, for a while.  
  
  
  
_Dear Catherine,  
  
I’m off. I’d like to say I’m off to a good start, but it would be a minor negligence to do so. I appear to have made an enemy in my first day on the job. His name is Will Scott, and he thinks he’s very intelligent. He saw me reading Cai Ming Hua in public, always a scandalous act, and shared some highly dramatic opinions on the second half of the Cepheid Cycle, with which I disagreed politely. It turns out he’s a nihilist, which I find old-fashioned.  
  
The job is fine so far, I think. It’s… well, it’s not quite what I expected. Perhaps it’s because I’m mostly designing for maintenance. I know it’s some of the most advanced tech in the galaxy, perhaps in the universe, and it’s a huge honour to be here, but… it will get better, I’m sure.  
  
I’ve been reading voraciously in my spare time. I think some part of me will always regret not going into the arts, although I do love engineering. But it’s all left me a bit with a feeling like I’m on the wrong side of the road, and I won’t be able to cross in time to catch my bus. Does that make any sense? It doesn’t to me, at any rate.  
  
I miss you.  
  
Philippa._

 

On his 21st birthday, infamous Central Andromeda Space Station pilot Will Scott sat on a stool in a reportedly seedy bar somewhere on the outskirts of CASS and set out to get roaringly drunk. It should not have been that difficult: he was not known for holding his liquor well. The venture was, however, almost entirely unsuccessful.  
  
This was due to the slender man who sat down next to him, not three minutes after Will had sullenly ordered a very large gin, and began to click his fingers on the wooden bartop. Tossing a glance his way, Will saw chin-length blond hair encircling hard features, and a pair of cold blue eyes. He returned to staring fixedly at his gin, feeling completely inadequate. This was a den of thieves, he had been told, and had promptly gone to search them out. He had not known they would be quite so distracting.  
  
Several minutes more passed, during which the man ordered a vodka and Will sought vainly for something to say. He shot another glance in the man’s direction, and something in his sharp face caught in Will’s brain. He squinted. “Are you Francis Crawford?”  
  
The gaze turned on him was like something from the deepest recesses of a freezer. “Are you going to do anything about it?”  
  
“No,” said Will hurriedly. “I was just curious. What are you doing in Central Andromeda?”  
  
“I’m trying,” said Francis Crawford, “to drink.”  
  
“Oh. You’re from the Outer Rim, right?” asked Will.  
  
“Tell me,” said Francis Crawford, “do you enjoy pointlessly needling strangers in shady bars? Is there some self-destructive urge in your pathetic mind that insists on plunging head-first into treasonous talk with a wanted criminal? Or are you simply too dim-witted to know when you should keep your pretty mouth shut?” He signalled over to the bartender. “Another vodka shot.”  
  
“You don’t have to be rude,” said Will, “I was just trying to be friendly.”  
  
“Really?” His voice was manically bright. “Well, in that case, don’t.”  
  
Will, suitably chastised, returned to nursing his untouched gin. He maintained his silence for approximately thirty seconds. “So do you have a group that you work in, or are you doing everything by yourself?”  
  
Francis Crawford threw his gloved hands in the air. “For the love of God! What must a man do to get drunk in this place? Back home they leave the bars to the men of business, and the nurseries to the foolish children. Here it seems they have it backward. Archie! Another vodka.”  
  
“I was just wondering,” said Will carefully, with careless intent, “whether you needed a pilot.”  
  
“What, are you volunteering?”  
  
“Don’t be dismissive. I’m the fastest pilot you’ll ever find.”  
  
“The most humble, too.” Francis Crawford gifted him with a condescending smile. “Why would you throw your shot in with me, a good-for-nothing traitor and thief?”  
  
“Well,” said Will philosophically, “you’re good at something. You’re good at being a traitor and a thief. There’s merit in that.”  
  
“Ha. Didn’t you hear, my sweet sunflower? I’m a murderer, too.” Francis Crawford wiggled his fingers. “I’ve got a vicious streak a mile wide. Or at least that’s what Senator Grey said. You should listen to your betters.”  
  
“They’re not my betters. No one’s my better. I mean, not inherently. I would have thought you would know that.”  
  
Francis Crawford stared at him with a scornful look on his mouth and a sad look in his eyes. “You shouldn’t picture me as what you think I am. How good a pilot are you truly?”  
  
“The best.”  
  
“Can you fire a gun?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Really.” On the bartop in front of him, Crawford flicked something metallic out from his sleeve. It clicked when he placed it on the scuffed wood. “Shoot that short man over by the dartboard, please.”  
  
“Fine,” said Will, out of sheer obstinacy. He had never shot a man in his life. It couldn’t be that hard, he thought. Pick up the device. Turn it over. Find the trigger.  
  
“The safety is that button on the side marked ‘safety,’” said Crawford nastily.  
  
Blushing, Will pressed it, and felt the device whir in his hand. A trigger, small and deadly, emerged from the smooth metal. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, he aimed the gun at the dartboard man and fired it.  
  
There was no laser, and certainly no bullet. Instead, the air seemed to ripple, as though it was distorting under heat, and then the dartboard crumbled inward on itself. The man next to it swore and jumped aside, then spun around to glare at Will.  
  
“Hm,” said Crawford. “You’ve got resolve, I’ll give you that.” He raised his voice. “Charlie, that will teach you to use my name as coin. You’re lucky our bright little flower is a poor shot.”  
  
“I’ve never fired whatever that was before,” protested Will. “I can fire a plasma gun perfectly well.”  
  
“Fascinating. Well, Marigold, this was entertaining, but I have business to attend to. Go back to your little daycare, hmm? I haven’t the time to babysit.”  
  
Will felt his ears veer dangerously into the infrared spectrum. “I’m not a baby,” he said, “They wouldn’t give me access to the intragalactic transport codes if I was a baby.”  
  
Slowly, Crawford placed his shot glass down. “Alright, darling,” he said, “you have my attention.”  
  
“Yes,” said Will recklessly. “I told you I was the best pilot you’d ever meet. I wasn’t lying. I’ve worked at CASS since I was seventeen, and I started all the way at the bottom. Anywhere in the galaxy you want, I can get.”  
  
“Hmm.” He thumbed the rim of his glass thoughtfully. “What about out of the galaxy?”  
  
“Well, that’s intergalactic space, no one’s allowed to--”  
  
“And here I thought,” said Crawford, with a certain measure of dismissive disgust, “that there was nowhere you couldn’t fly. Chin up, little dandelion, you’ve yet a world of illicit transport to be introduced to, and I’m not one to deflower a virgin. Come back to me when you’ve got a few years’ smuggling under your belt.”  
  
Will did not move, although he felt his face begin to throb in embarrassment. “Fine,” he said, and fumbled in his pocket for a couple of coins. His fingers closed on a pen. “Message me if you see sense.” Hurriedly, he scrawled his phone ID on the bartop, smacked the pen down beside it, and stormed out of the bar without a backward glance.  
  
Five steps out the door, he paused, and darted back in with his head ducked low to pay for his drink. Then he exited once more, crimson with shame.  
  
“Well,” he heard Francis Crawford say out of the corner of his ear, “I shudder to think what CASS’s least promoted pilots look like.”

A year passed, in which Philippa Somerville was not living her best life. There were blueprints to make, and she made them. There were forms to file, and she filed them. There were boxes to check, and she checked them with all the enthusiasm of roadkill. She ate. She slept. Every once in a while, she wrote a letter to Catherine.  
  
Nothing happened to her anymore.  
  
She dressed the part of an up-and-coming transport engineer: she had quickly learned how to plait her hair up in elegant buns, how to brush on flawless makeup and wear tight-fitting suits. Promotion came quickly, and with it expectation.  
  
She was bored.  
  
Her designs were good, and everything went according to plan. Her parents were doing well, although Gideon had a pesky cough that was irritating him. But she had no friends at all, save for one irritating transport pilot who wouldn’t stop arguing with her over books.  
  
Which was why when a distressed Will asked her to keep a secret, she said yes out of sheer curiosity.  
  
“I would be fired for this if they find out,” he said, slouching against the consul of his navboard. “Or maybe arrested? Actually, I think I might be arrested. But that doesn’t matter. I feel like I’m doing something with my life for once.”  
  
Philippa, curled in the captain’s chair, raised a delicate eyebrow at him. He was a very silly person nearly all the time. “What have you done, Will?”  
  
He mugged at her defiantly. “I’ve been seeing someone very dangerous.”  
  
“Seeing someone,” repeated Philippa, unsure, “as in dating?”  
  
“No, no, no,” said Will hurriedly. “I don’t mean that at all. I don’t even know why you’d jump to that conclusion.”  
  
“Because of what words mean, Will.”  
  
“Right,” he said, waving a hand, “whatever. Anyway. This bloke. He’s...not very nice, but I’ve been helping him with some, um, trading ventures and such.”  
  
Philippa sighed. “You’ve gotten into smuggling, haven’t you.”  
  
“And so what if I have?”  
  
“It’s a bit illegal, Will.”  
  
“Laws,” said Will, “are only meant to keep us in bondage.”  
  
“Please, not now, I don’t have the energy for your philosophy.” Philippa, in the face of crime, felt strangely calm. “Just tell me what you’ve been doing.”  
  
“I’ve been helping a freedom fighter get supplies to the Magellans.”  
  
“Aren’t the Magellans gearing up for a war?”  
  
“I don’t follow politics, Somerville.”  
  
“You should, they’re clearly following you. So who’s this freedom fighter? Have I heard of him?”  
  
“Um,” said Will slowly, “I think there’s a good chance you might have.”  
  
“Well, there’s no time like the present. Best to spit the whole thing out,” said Philippa prosaically.  
  
It went something like this: Will had met Francis Crawford (good Lord, thought Philippa) in a bar, where he had proceeded to give the man his message ID out of a combination of rebellion and smitten infatuation. Several months had passed before receiving a job offer to cart stolen tech to the edge of Andromeda. Will, riding the high of success, had chased more daring ventures. Finally these began to involve crossing galactic lines-- and Will, with his reputation for flawless navigation and his clearance level, was perfectly placed to break every single commerce law in place.  
  
“So why are you telling me this now?” asked Philippa.  
  
“Because,” said Will, all the lights of Hell in his eyes, “He wants me to do one last mission. With added robbery.”  
  
“Where to?”  
  
“The Magellans. With a freightload of stolen cybernetics.”  
  
“But they’ll be tagged,” said Philippa. “Alerts will sound the second you cross into interspace.”  
  
Will lifted his chin. “Yes.”  
  
“You’re...not planning on coming back.”  
  
“The Master says he’s got plenty of jobs for me in the Magellans.”  
  
“The Master?” Philippa repeated incredulously. “What happened to universal equality and other little revolutions? Will, you can’t follow Francis Crawford to some civil war gazillions of lightyears away. The man’s a monster. He blew up his own sister, and everyone knows he sold the Rim out to the Anglian government, and besides he threatened my parents!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Fine!” said Philippa, who was on a roll. “I’ve never told anyone this, Will, but I know Francis Crawford. I met him when I was about twenty or so. I was halfway through my degree, and I went home to visit my parents, and he threatened to torture me to death with something I later found out was a Haosha device.”  
  
“Francis wouldn’t-- well--”  
  
“Oh, he’s Francis now, is he?” said Philippa bitterly. “He would. You know he would. Plays the piano, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Exactly. You’re being dumb, Will. Don’t do this.”  
  
“Don’t tell me what to do. I can make my own choices.”  
  
Philippa threw up her hands. “Right. Yes. Fine, you can. I suppose I’ll see you on the feeds when you’re sentenced to death for treason. Goodbye, Will.”  
  
She stormed out before he could say anything else, and it was only the following morning, when Will didn’t show up at work, that she realized he had told her the whole saga so as to say goodbye.

  


 

A civil war started up in the Magellans, which surprised no one. Anglia sent a fleet, as did Gallia. Philippa watched the feeds with bated breath. For a long time, nothing unexpected happened.  
  
Until, of course, it did. “ALBAN AND HIBERIAN FORCES ARREST FRANCIS CRAWFORD FOR TREASON,” read the headlines. “TRIAL SET TO DECEMBER 7TH FOR CRAWFORD, ACCUSED OF ESPIONAGE.”  
  
It was a name that had not graced the feeds for some years, and after a flurry of questions along the lines of “who was he, again?” the general public rallied to the bloodbath. The Outer Rim was ecstatic that it was their people who finally nabbed him, not the Anglians; it was acceptable to steal tech from a governmental goliath, they posited, but quite unforgivable to betray one’s own nation. The rabble of Central Andromeda were delighted for quite another reason: Alba had no laws mandating privacy in the courts. The trial would be broadcast live on every feed in the galaxy.  
  
Philippa, in the days approaching the trial, buried herself in her work. Not because she had any particular attachment to Francis Crawford (outside of a vengeful brand of morbid curiosity), but because she was absolutely terrified that, standing next to Crawford, she would see Will Scott in handcuffs.  
  
There was a screen in her lab. It was always tuned to the soaps.  
  
“Austin?” she said, ten minutes into that unbearable morning.  
  
He stopped fiddling with a transmitter and smiled at her in that particular way of his. “Uh-huh?”  
  
“Could you turn the feeds to L-DAN, please?”  
  
“Why?” He glanced around his desk for the remote. “What’s on?”  
  
“Francis Crawford’s trial. I can’t help but be curious.”  
  
Austin raised a condescending eyebrow at her, but switched the feeds over. “You needn’t be curious, everyone knows he’s guilty. Mass-murdering bastard.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Philippa impatiently. “Now be a dear and shut up.”  
  
The first images of the court were blessedly lacking in Will Scotts, and she breathed a tentative sigh of relief. Then her brain caught up to her senses.  
  
Francis Crawford, dressed in an offensively elegant suit, stood at the center of the courtroom. He was not talking. He was instead smiling, in a vaguely amiable kind of way. The bailiff, reading off a list of charges, looked reticent.  
  
“...was apprehended on a transport ship in the Psi Kappa Quadrant of Andromeda, far from any centralized government. He was in possession of a small suitcase, which was filled only with clothes, jewellery, and a bottle of vodka. No contraband was found on his person or in his affects. He cooperated with local authorities and has made no effort to deny his identity.”  
  
That’s not right, she thought. That can’t be right.  
  
Austin was watching her. “Got enough of an eyeful?” he asked, in a manner that suggested he had done her an extraordinary favor.  
  
“Leave it on,” said Philippa, and went back to her work. She allowed herself to glance up at the screen occasionally throughout the next half hour, more often than she would have liked. There was a lot of legal parlay that she didn’t understand, and oddly enough they were trying him only for treason. But eventually the bailiff led Francis Crawford to the stand, and she couldn’t help but set her blueprints aside.  
  
There was something strange about his gait. She remembered suddenly the jerky, robotic way he had walked in her parents’ house years ago-- his pace had smoothed out now to a fluid prowl that looked startlingly inhuman. He had stolen tech from AES: she could hazard a pretty good guess as to what it had been. Of course, cybernetics that advanced were illegal, and a close-guarded academic and government secret. Philippa wondered, idly, what the price was for Francis Crawford’s silence. Surely not a favorable sentence-- some reduction in punishment, perhaps? Or silence in turn?  
  
“You are Francis Sybilla Crawford, born March 16th, 3526 on Culter in the Alban system?”  
  
Crawford leaned forward minutely. “Yes,” he said, into the microphone.  
  
“And how do you plead to the charges of treason against the Alban government that have been laid against you here today?”  
  
Tilting his head, Crawford spoke clearly. “Not guilty.”  
  
There was a murmur in the court. Philippa saw the prosecution (whose name tag declared her to be Margaret Erskine) lean over and whisper something to the defense, a jumpy-looking man whose name tag read “Daniel Hislop.”  
  
“You deny,” said the bailiff, “that you sold information on Alban fleet movements to the Anglian government during a time of war?”  
  
“Brief, bright, and bloody,” said Crawford. “It would have been a lucky shot. Yes, I deny it.”  
  
The prosecution stood. “Objection,” she said. “We find the defendant’s glib attitude to be inadmissible in a court of law.”  
  
“Overruled,” said the judge. “Defendant over to the prosecution.”  
  
Frowning minutely, Margaret Erskine stepped out from behind her desk. Francis Crawford’s bored gaze followed her across the floor until she stopped in front of him.  
  
“What was your reason for leaving Culter on May 13th of 3544?”  
  
“Well,” said Crawford, “I had been woken up that morning by an assassination attempt, and felt I needed a change of scenery.”  
  
“And how did you leave the planet?”  
  
“A Gallian merchant ship offered me passage on the condition that I work six months onboard.”  
  
Margaret Erskine did not look happy at this. “What was the name of the ship?”  
  
“The Cross of Malta.”  
  
“And did you serve out your indenture?”  
  
“Only the first five months.”  
  
It was tricky, Philippa saw. Technically, Crawford’s flight granted him refugee status, which was permissible under Alban law. Indentured servitude was illegal, but only for the contract writers. And breaking a servitude contract in Gallia resulted only in a fine.  
  
“And what happened at the end of five months?” said Margaret Erskine.  
  
“The ship docked too near Central Andromeda, and I escaped and claimed asylum at the Anglian embassy. It was at this point that I discovered the officials believed me to be a priority resource to the Anglian government. They transferred me to Anglia, where I stayed for some time with Margaret Douglas. I believe you may have heard the name.”  
  
They had, of course. Margaret Douglas was an Anglian career politician, and whatever your beliefs, you respected her efficacy. You also knew that she was hardly a halfway house. Philippa remembered suddenly that despite his hard eyes, Crawford was only a few years older than her. How old would he have been then? Eighteen, nineteen? Too young for the deadly labyrinth of Anglian politics, certainly.  
  
“And what role,” said Erskine, looking suspicious, “did you fulfill in Margaret Douglas’ household?”  
  
Daniel Hislop stood. “Objection,” he said. “Question has no bearing on the question of treason.”  
  
“Overruled,” said the judge. “The defendant may choose whether he wishes to answer.”  
  
Smiling slightly, Crawford nodded. “It’s no matter. I didn’t do anything political-- my power was symbolic, not active. I was there for five months, during which time I mainly stayed in my room. I read, played the piano, helped clean the house.”  
  
“Would you say your stay was uneventful?”  
  
“No,” he said. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Ms. Douglas was very welcoming, and I attended several functions during my time there, mostly at her house, but a few at other locales as well.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
He looked reflective. “The only one I remember is Kate and Gideon Somerville,” he said, and Philippa saw Austin start, “because they had a lovely piano behind which I hid for most of the evening.”  
  
“Philippa?”  
  
“Yes, Austin?”  
  
“Aren’t your parents called Kate and Gideon?”  
  
“Yes, Austin.”  
  
“Well, do you know the bastard?”  
  
“I met him once or twice, Austin. Can’t say I relish the memories.”  
  
“Hmm.” Austin did not seem satisfied.  
  
On the screen, the judge looked mildly amused. “So you deny charges of treason and espionage in a time of war,” he said. “What about armed robbery, smuggling, and intragalactic piracy?”  
  
There was a flurry of motion among the court attendees. The bailiff whispered something to the judge, who waived him away.  
  
Francis Crawford, for his part, laughed. “Rumors, greatly exaggerated. I have indeed been on the run from the law, but only because three different governments want me dead for crimes I did not commit. I do not know who committed them, or how they attached themselves to me.”  
  
“Rumors, you say,” said the judge, who looked very nearly smitten. “And the accusations that you were responsible for your sister’s death?”  
  
“Oh,” said Crawford. “They’re correct.”  
  
There was silence. The judge looked nonplussed.  
  
“It was in the chaos of war against the Anglians,” Crawford said softly, with all the emotion of a dead grey sky. “I had arranged the self-destruction of a transport ship in order to stall an Anglian invasion of Adenbay. I was unaware that she was on it.”  
  
“...you willingly confess to manslaughter?” said the judge at length.  
  
“It was not manslaughter. It was a tragedy of war, and a personal tragedy as well. But there is no legal ground for a conviction, as much as I wish I could make amends.”  
  
There came the sound of a door slamming violently, and someone rushed down the aisles. Philippa stared. He was tall, with a shock of red hair shorn off at the sides, and-- to her utter astonishment-- he wore earrings. It was Will Scott, looking entirely unlike she had ever seen him. He turned to the camera, his face flushed, and waved something small in one hand.  
  
“I’ve got them,” he pronounced, then skipped over to the witness stand and slammed the thing down in front of Francis Crawford. Philippa scowled at the open adoration in his eyes. “I’ve got the files-- and I know who sent all that stolen tech to Mariotta.”  
  
For several seconds there was confused muttering. Then the bailiff stood and motioned at the reporters. “Session adjourned,” he said, “in order to process new evidence brought forth by Mr. Will Scott of Alba.”  
  
The screen fizzled out to blue, and Philippa stared. She was still staring when Austin made his way over to her and waved his hand in front of her face.  
  
“Philippa,” he said, “Phiiiiiiilippa. Isn’t that your best friend who went missing a while back?”  
  
“He’s not my best friend,” she said defensively. “My best friend is Catherine from uni.”  
  
“Right,” said Austin, “the mythical Catherine. Let me know when she appears to hang out with you alongside Will Scott and fucking Confucius.” He softened. “Look, me and some of the guys from Lab 12 are going to the pub when we’re off, do you want to come? Drinks on me.”  
  
This was, Philippa thought, a decent gesture at friendship. “No,” she said.  
  
“No need to be like that.”  
  
“Sorry, Austin. I’m a bit… stressed.”  
  
He waved a hand. “I get it. Good luck with your…” He peered over her shoulder at her screen. “...weird locator project. I’m going to get back to my circuits.”

 

In the end, Philippa did go with him to the pub, if only for something to distract her from the trial. Austin was surprisingly sweet the whole evening, even if his Lab 12 friends made lewd comments not quite out of earshot.  
  
So it was not until she made her way back to her small room in the Red Quadrant, slightly tipsy, that she heard the news. Francis Crawford had been let off. She stared, vacant-eyed, at the headlines: “FRANCIS CRAWFORD FOUND INNOCENT AFTER NEW EVIDENCE INCRIMINATES ANDREW HUNTER.”  
  
Very few people, it seemed, actually knew who Andrew Hunter was, and Philippa found almost nothing on him after trawling the nets. Still. Will was safe-- safe as he could be in the company of a man like that, who had him wrapped around his little finger. A man who’d blown up his own sister.  
  
And that, as far as Francis Crawford was concerned, was it. Aside from a few analysis pieces that trickled in over the next few weeks, Philippa did not hear his name again for another year. That was the length of time it took for her to finally quit working at CASS, to finally call up Catherine and suggest a well-earned vacation, and to finally punch Austin Grey in the face.  
  
“So then he asked me if I put out for every half-assed philosopher who gave me the time of day,” she said to Catherine, nursing some kind of fizzy cherry drink, “and said that I was wasting my glory years on hard work and bad books. He said… he said he would provide for me, Catherine!”  
  
“Oh, dear, Philippa. Provide what?”  
  
“Security!”  
  
“Ah!” Catherine laid a dramatic hand over her eyes and flailed backward in the sand.  
  
“Prosperity!”  
  
“Oooh!”  
  
“Masculinity!”  
  
“Ew,” said Catherine. “Promise me you’ll never date anyone who can’t talk about emotions.”  
  
“Never,” said Philippa seriously. “Pinky promise.”  
And after a very pleasant two weeks on a Calabrese beach, Philippa went home to her parents, ready to start over.

 

Very far away indeed, Will Scott sat a table next to Francis Crawford, stewing in his bitter malcontent.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said, “he seems a bit straightlaced to me.”  
  
“He has ears,” said the sullen man across from them. “And he doesn’t want to hear from some ginger aspirant to espionage.”  
  
“Play nice, boys,” said Francis, his eyes closed. “Let’s not fight.”  
  
This put a damper on Will’s mood. He was always looking for a fight. “Come one, Francis,” he tried again, “surely there are better candidates for the job. Ones who don’t hate you.”  
  
“If they don’t hate him,” said the dark-haired man, “they wouldn’t pass the mandatory intelligence test.”  
  
“See?” Francis waved a hand towards him. “How could I ever look for love when I have enemies like Jerott here? All the intensity and none of the bother about feelings.”  
  
Bastard, thought Will. God damn it.  
  
“Right.” Francis leaned across the table and patted Jerott on the shoulder. “You’re hired. We’ve put together quite the little team, Jerott. In two senses of the phrase.”  
  
“I don’t care much.”  
  
Francis stood and walked to the door, rolling his sleeves up. “Will, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. I’m sure you have very much in common.” His left hand glinted in the low light, and he tapped his finger thoughtfully on the doorknob. “After all, you’ve both tried to kill me before. Perhaps you can compare notes.” And he grinned.  
  
Will could have sworn his right eye sparked. It was probably his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for St Mary's, dark!Francis, and Philippa's Conflicted Feelings.


End file.
